


A High Percale Number Counts for Nothing When you Want it.

by nom_omnis_moriar



Series: Elementary, My Dear (ACOL One-Shots) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rimming, The Sheet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nom_omnis_moriar/pseuds/nom_omnis_moriar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn’t need to see anything through the sheet, he can envision it all perfectly in his mind thank you very much, his memory on visual matters (or on this matter at least) is a damn sight more accurate than 62%.</p><p>But that doesn't stop him from wanting it.  And my God does he want it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A High Percale Number Counts for Nothing When you Want it.

**Author's Note:**

> A glorious prompt from Qualyn, who deserves such a filthy one shot for not being afraid to ask for what she likes! Respect!
> 
> Warning: first attempt ever at a sex scene...

** February 20th 2011 (32 Weeks) **

John is under absolutely no pretence whatsoever about the sudden presence of The Sheet. 

(Yes, it gets capital letters, it’s _that_ significant.)

Sherlock Holmes is a very lazy man about some things, and horrendously OCD about others. Unfortunately, day to day rituals contain both aspects, which mean that they never get done _properly_.

For example, whilst enjoying Chinese Takeaway, Sherlock will demand to have the dry dishes (Singapore chow mein, special fried rice, egg foo yung) on a completely different plate to the ones with sauce (pork with cashew nuts, chicken and black bean), and different cutlery because he doesn’t like the dry food to get ‘soggy’. 

But does he ever bother to clean the plates up at the end? No he bloody doesn’t. 

The same principle goes for getting ready. Sherlock is insistent on showering every. Single. Day. There could be a gas leak in the flat, and the man would still barricade himself in the bathroom and take his chances. He’d make (and has made, but won’t tell John) a concoction of vinegar from the jar of pickled onions and baking soda into a DIY shampoo if there was none to be found elsewhere...

However, because he has to be lazy as well, (never does his laundry, _“Mrs Hudson, throw these in with yours would you? ...Yes those are satin: ‘you break it you buy it’ is the term, I believe.”_ ) and John sometimes has the nerve to go and have a life elsewhere; Sherlock will be left with no clothes. So he wears the sheet: thereby making the entire showering ritual somewhat pointless because there is no way he can leave the flat. 

The Sheet, for the beginning of its stay at 221B stayed confined to Sherlock’s bed. But then John stopped being ... ‘whipped’ as it were. He stopped with the whole _pussy footing around his new flatmate so that we get along_ charade. But most importantly, stopped being Sherlock’s friend (according to Sherlock) / pal (according to Mycroft) / colleague (according to himself, what a laugh that was) / lov-

Oh wait that last option he actually became.

Then, the sheet arrived, somewhat like a metaphorical third wheel. Or, in other words, a complete fucking irritence. 

“You’ll have to stop this little habit of yours soon enough.” John says on this particular day, because today is a Sheet day, “You can’t be waltzing around the flat wearing _that_ ,” He gives the sheet a perhaps over exaggerated glare of hatred, “When you have a newborn around.”

Sherlock squirms further into the cushions of the sofa and the sheets forms new creases, “Still have a little while. Enjoying it while I can.” He responds to today’s copy of The Observer, flapping the pages gaudily. “Pass me your laptop will you, I’m planning to go away.”

Now John’s _face_ forms new creases. It’s a good job he isn’t in tea – drinking mode because it would have spurted out of his mouth at this point, “Five weeks Sherlock. Molly’s due in five weeks and you want to go holiday?”

The newspaper is discarded, much like Sherlock’s interest in this conversation (if he ever had any to begin with), “It’s _not_ a holiday. I’ll only be gone for a couple of days John, be back before you know it.”

“Trust me, I’ll know it, the flat wouldn’t look like it was inhabited by dossing Humanities students...” He mumbles, handing over his laptop and having to lean almost all of the distance between the two of them to do so, because Sherlock is such an absolute sloth. 

Sherlock flicks open the lid of the laptop and types in the password _‘Sherlockyouareanabsolouteballache’_ (John had given up resetting it at this point, at least now he could smirk a little to himself at Sherlock’s face of disdain when he had to type it), “Tut tut, Mycroft’s a Humanities man, I’ll tell him you insulted his field in such a way.”

“Yes, well, you’d actually have to talk to him then wouldn’t you?”

After a glance of mutual understanding and one sided smirks, John picks up his weathered copy of The Hobbit - he wants to re-read it now there is the hype over the rumours of an upcoming film. 

(In the future, as a hilarious running joke between the two of them, whenever the trailer is shown on the telly, Sherlock will be there in an instant to make witty remark. 

“Oh that is a nice cape you are wearing today. Hasn’t your wardrobe improved, hmm? I bet it would go ever so well with your cable knit jumper.”

“You look _significantly_ taller here John.”

“Are you as good an actor as you are a poet?”

Or sometimes he just walks past the screen and says ‘Oh, hello John.” with a tone of nonchalance (a.k.a sarcasm). 

_‘It’s stupid,’_ John will think, _‘I don’t look anything like Bilbo Baggins, I don’t have hairy feet for a start.’_ )

Unfortunately John barely gets to meet Gandalf the Grey before he hears the rustle of the sheet once more (Gandalf is mentioned like six pages in, that’s how _demanding_ Sherlock is) and the rearrangement of limbs. 

This rearrangement is much more to John’s liking. Sherlock with his leg raised, foot lying on the other knee and laptop in the little niche he has created has caused the sheet to abandon its role in covering him up, revealing pale, muscular thighs.

That’s inner thighs in particular, and if John squints a little, smooth pink skin amongst a nest of black in between those thighs. That, along with the sudden slip of the sheet off of one shoulder revealing a bloom of freckles is enough to have John forget about going there and bloody back again entirely. 

Sherlock reciprocates with a quick glance at John’s crotch. “Oh _really_ John?” He sighs, as if to a toddler who’s just spilt juice over their freshly clean clothes (it’s a tone he has to practise, after all) “Really?”

“It’s your bloody fault; you could actually _wear clothes_ like a normal person!”

Sherlock huffs and tosses the laptop to the other side of the sofa, “All my clothes are either covered in baby formula or soaking wet, what was I supposed to do?”

Within the last couple of weeks or so – or more specifically, since Molly turned up at the door in the early hours of the morning suffering from a particularly bad stint of Braxton Hicks that had Sherlock fully releasing erm, _yes_ , that is a child if her womb, and _yes_ , you helped put it there and _yes_ sooner (much sooner) rather than later you are going to be responsible for it – Sherlock had really gone for the whole ‘preparing for parenthood’ thing. 

Molly did a thing called ‘nesting’ which involved painting a bedroom cream or something like that. Sherlock did a thing called spending about £50 quid on baby formula, trying each type at different lengths of time in the microwave and drinking it himself to see the effects on his...digestive tract and what would be best suited for the baby. Oh, and preparing baths of varying depths and temperatures too.

“Go and do the bloody washing then! Honestly, it’s been two months nearly; I would have though this mass-sulk over that Adler woman-”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets his head flop back onto the sofa cushion.

“Don’t you start - I would have thought it would have been over by now.”

“Do you ever think It would be over, if you would just stop bringing her up?” Sherlock sighs, holding as straight a face as possible as his mobile bleeps.

_**Booking Confirmation:**  
1x First Class Ticket  
Departing from: London, Heathrow Airport, 24th February at 16:05  
Arriving at: Karachi, Pakistan, 25th February at 03:45  
Flight Number: PK 758_

_Thank you for booking with PIA, Mr Holmes._

It’s true, John does still bring her up on occasion (a lot), because it’s bad enough being part of a love triangle of sorts with him, Molly and Sherlock. Throw Irene into the mix, with her voice and lingerie of silk and it’s...

Well, the only way John’s mind can describe it that it’s like a molecule of CH4 and Sherlock’s the carbon. 

In other words, John, Molly and Irene go to Sherlock, but don’t really interfere with each other. Using a shape would suggest that it’s just a constant ménage à quatre between them (if Irene wasn’t on the run, anyway) and it’s not, its fighting for Sherlock’s attention when he already devotes a small percentage of his time to social activities anyway. 

“Look,” John says in a hushed tone, even though there is nobody else in the flat, “I know after the whole...Plane of Dead business you were pretty distraught-“

“John.”

“-I mean you were bad, _really_ bad. Molly was worried. I was worr-”

Sherlock attempts a firmer tone, “John.”

“-But it’s dragging on a bit now isn’t it? You beat her in the end, isn’t that what matter-” 

“John!” He says, this time increasing the volume, which seems to do the job and John pauses to take a breath, “Are we having this argument because you’ve got an erection?”

In all honestly, the answer is _yes_ , John is frustrated (both sexually and just, you know, normally) because Sherlock’s been nothing but a tease recently, what with his sudden relationship with his sheet. A high percale number counts for nothing when you want it, John knows this. He can’t see a damn thing through the sheet, but it’s the knowing. 

It’s the damn _knowing_ that under those sheets is a body made of talcum skin and lean muscle, dusky nipples and that most gorgeous bottom, still covered in the musk of sleeping a total of five hours in the night. 

Of course he doesn’t really smell of musk at all because in case you didn’t know, Sherlock had a shower first thing this morning. He smells of that dodgy artificial fruit smell you get from body wash – Papaya and Mango, John thinks - which admittedly is still rather pleasant, but not _sexy_.

Still, John doesn’t _need_ to see anything, he can envision it all perfectly in his mind thank you very much, John’s memory on visual matters (or on this matter at least) is a damn sight more accurate than 62%, so Sherlock can stuff it. 

So accurate in fact, that it has indeed given John Watson a rather eager hard – on. And this time, he is _not_ going to feel bad about it. 

“Right, I’ve about had enough of this.” John states, slamming his book down onto the arm of the chair (the damn chair is so cushiony that it doesn’t exactly have the dramatic effect that he was hoping for), “Get up.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raise so high they disappear in the curl of his fringe – his attention is caught. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” John says, pushing himself out of his chair, because frankly, the more he goes along with this, the less he feels guilty about what he’s doing, “Sherlock Lysander Sigmund Willoughby Holmes,” He warns, striding towards his flatmate.

Now Sherlock knows something’s about to go down (hopefully John, down onto his knees), he flutters his eyelashes as John looms over him, “J-John-”

John leans forward, grabbing the scruff of the sheet, “Now listen to me.” He begins, hefting Sherlock onto his feet, but still no less intimidating now the roles have been reversed and Sherlock looks down at him, “You are going to lie in your bed and let me do whatever I want with you. You’re going to take it all, and you’re going to like it.”

Sherlock swallows audibly and barely has time to bunch up his sheet a little before John grabs his arms and pulls him through the kitchen (where Sherlock actually trips over himself a little) and towards the bedroom. 

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Virginity.

Sherlock learnt what it was when he was ten years, eight months and fourteen days old, visiting his brother at the University of Cambridge. The Wren Library at Trinity College held an Anglo – Saxon manuscript, which shows the first use of ‘virgin’ in English. As Sherlock didn’t know the word and actually liked his brother at that time, he wasted no time in declaring “Mycroft! Virgin?!” and Mycroft answered him immediately, if just to keep him quiet. 

John learnt it a little earlier, sitting at a picnic bench whilst on a school trip to the Natural History Museum, his feet dangling a good distance from the grass. A group of boys asked him if he was a ‘virgin’ and because he’d learnt it was often best to say ‘no’ in these circumstances, he did just that. Except apparently that wasn’t the right thing to say and they fell into a fit of giggles screaming “Johnny’s lost his cherry!” Little John didn’t understand what that meant _either_ , but he slammed his lunchbox shut to hide the punnet of the fruit his mum had put in there for him, incase he got teased anymore. 

Of course, the older you got, the more complicated it became. First there were different types physiologically, depending on your sexual orientation. Then there were the spiritualists who brought up the term ‘born – again virgin’ and saw it as a more spiritual, emotional ‘first’ rather than a physical one. 

Either way, Sherlock’s lying on his back right now with both feet balancing on the top of his mahogany footboard, remnants of the sheet curling around his arm and thigh, arms outstretched like he ought to belong to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and he’s starting to feel a little...

Edgy. Edgy in a John’s – just – reached – for – the – bottle – of – lube – but – that’s – always – been – my – job kind of way. 

“John, what are you do-” 

And there goes the ominous squirt from the bottle, along with John not warming it between his palms like he would if he was reaching for Sherlock’s cock. No, it stays as little nodules on his fingertips, which can only mean one thing – _Oh_.

“Finally figured it out have you?” John asks with a smirk, using his dry hand to firmly cup Sherlock’s balls and lift them slightly. “I’m going to fuck _you_ Sherlock.” 

And so, Sherlock Holmes realises he is about to lose perhaps his last fragment of ‘virginity’. Hand jobs / fellatio / frottage / heterosexual penetrative (let’s not talk about that) / being the ‘top’, all check.

Being the bottom? Get the pen ready, John seems determined to get this ticked off today. With a fat, fucking, red felt tip pen. 

Sherlock squirms a little as he feels the cool gel on his perineum, but with John’s tainted mind, if just seems as though he’s rocking his hips and pressing his arse down into the mattress. And so, with his thumb staying exactly where it was, John eases his fingers down, slowly down...

“John I thought we talked about this, I’m not-” Then he thrusts his eyes open, muscles turned to steel but bone turned to cream, quivering in place.

“Oh _really_?” John taunts, “That’s not what your body’s telling you is it?” He adds, fingered pressed flat against the clenching muscle.

“Nghh....”

“Now now, if you keep doing that we’ll never get anywhere will we?” John warns teasingly, patting the flesh and creating a filthy wet sound. “Be a good boy Sherlock.”

But Sherlock’s having none of it, far more nervous than the first time John and he made love and he was the one who was in control. He’s used to being the dominant one. In _everything_. With a whinge of protest, he begins to lift one foot from the footboard-

“You little cocktease.” John snaps, grabbing Sherlock’s foot and putting it firmly back in place and pulling his other hand away.

John’s lips hum around the digits that have found their way into his mouth, and Sherlock watches with allure, eyelids heavy, wishing it was his cock that was making John’s cheeks hollow like that. With a satisfied sigh, John removes the fingers and shifts himself back on the bed, “Seeing as you aren’t behaving, I’ll just have to use another method won’t I?” 

“W-what?” Sherlock gasps as John moves to lie on his stomach, legs twisted to the side under Sherlock’s bent legs and his hands under his lover’s already raised arse to support it. 

John’s breathes harshly to hold back laughter, “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to taste you, Sherlock.” He mumbles so low that Sherlock swears he can _feel_ it against his flesh rather than hear it. 

Then there comes a slight re-arrangement on Sherlock’s part, thighs pushed apart so much he feels a little self-conscious, (but John’s already explained to him that that’s in fact part of the appeal, ‘spread eagle’ he called it). But then that gets Sherlock thinking about what wingspan’s he could exceed in this position, until he feels the first little peck to the top of his cleft, and then well, he becomes rather incoherent.

With a visible and audible shudder from Sherlock, John wastes no time in placing his tongue flat against the muscle, bringing it upwards and giving it just the slightest flick, like you would an ice cream sundae (though John is noticing a distinct lack of syrup on this sundae), so the tip of tongue slips into Sherlock’s hole. 

“More John...”

John raises his head so that Sherlock can see him in the apex of his legs, suckling at his balls like two ripe cherries joined at the...ahem...stem. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock whimpers, which doesn’t usually work on John because it’s always got something to do with experiments or non edible items in the fridge, but this is slightly different. “Oh John _please_!” He exclaims, head flopping back onto the pillow.

“Yeah that’s what I thought, naughty.” John says, placing his upper lip on Sherlock again and dragging it down.

There’s the initial dry feel of the top lip, dragging down the skin slowly in friction and then it _slides_ as the lip curls upwards, revealing the wet underside. A hand instinctively finds John’s hair and the lips now come with tongue, lapping and sucking. 

“How do you feel?” John pants, indulging himself and licking right from the hole all the way to the tip of Sherlock’s aching cock, before pausing.

Sherlock shoves a few pillows under his shoulders, tilting his upper body so he can see better, just in time to see John nuzzling his lips against his tip, a shine taking to his lips. “T-taken” He sighs, taking a deep breathe to reel back some composure as John tilts his head down to lick the crease between thigh and hip, “...feel taken John...”

John sits up; leaning over Sherlock’s curled body, and tips his chin so they are eye to eye, “Yeah? You want me to take you?” He asks with a voice gravelled with want, but posture held taut as he skims his lips over Sherlock’s. 

The closest Sherlock’s gives as a response is rolling his head a little, eyes fluttering closed and his tongue peeking out to wet his lips in preparation for another figurative fucking. John complies, thrusts his tongue into that mouth, one hand holding Sherlock’s head in place, and the other moving a leg to wrap around his waist. 

With Sherlock occupied, John then thrusts his hand into his boxers (yeah John still isn’t naked, he’s been far too attentive elsewhere, plus he’s recently become a white CK man, just because Sherlock goes giddy for it) and reveals a hand glistening with pre-come.

John pulls away first, because he adores watching Sherlock take a little huff of breath and sigh in adornment at being so thoroughly kissed. “Fold your legs towards you...yeah just like that.” John murmurs in approval, using his _Digitus Secundus Manus_ and _Digitus Me’dius_ (index and middle finger) to scoop up the residue just under Sherlock’s belly button, using his other hand to grasp Sherlock’s cock and fist it slowly. He swears he can feel a pulse. 

Then, he poses his hand as a child would a gun, and presses the tip of his middle finger in and _oh-_

_“Fuck.”_

_“Oh my G-...”_

He keeps pushing, and Sherlock keep on taking, hitching his hips a little so it goes in to the knuckle “Oh, so you want it now?” John asks with false innocence, slipping his finger out a little and putting it right back in all the way repeatedly.

“Oh just give me more already!” Sherlock demands with a whimper, reaching for John’s hand (more specifically his index finger), looks up right into his eyes and eases it into himself, “Ughh...John.”.

With a determination John hadn’t seen from Sherlock since attempting IKEA flat – pack furniture (a cot, if you must know), Sherlock maintains eye contact, grips John’s wrist and fucks himself on those fingers. He controls the pace, the depth, the width, lips pursing together tightly when he finds a particularly delightful combination on the three. 

“Oh stop being such a Consulting Detective.” John warns, batting Sherlock’s wrist away and ignoring his sob of protest when he removes his fingers. “Bloody analysing and deducing everything...”

John finally releases himself, removing his underwear somewhat awkwardly in his small partition of the bed and noting the slight grunt from the taller man when his cock is revealed, weeping and heavy. “Go on then,” He begins, coating himself in lube, “Deduce _this_ Sherlock” with the tip of his cock pressing against the man beneath him. “How’s it going to feel?”

Sherlock clamps his eyes shut to prevent an overload of stimuli, “Hot...”

“Yeah, what else?” John prompts, rubbing his head around the outline of the muscle.

“Hard...” And John nods. “So _thick..._ "Sherlock pants, when he feels the first stretch of intrusion. 

Don’t worry, John may be acting a bit of a Dom here, but he takes it slow, one hand on himself and the other under Sherlock’s knee as he pulls the head of his cock out and then eagerly enters him again. 

“Can feel you, really _feel_ you...”

John knows that just as well, he can feel the contractions of the muscles, the smooth insides, the hotness of blood in Sherlock’s body, “I know sweetheart...” as he pushes himself in deeper this time, much to his lover’s delight. 

“Come _on_.” Sherlock pleads, leaning up once again and taking John’s head in his hand, pulling his body towards his, “Take me.” He whispers in his ear, “Take me John, please.”

John nods sharply, goes to kneel between Sherlock’s thighs, and holds his legs. With a final nod of confirmation from Sherlock, he takes his lips in a deep kiss and _pushes_.

The kiss doesn’t necessarily go to plan, the pair of them suddenly pulling away and groaning loudly in the nanometres between parted lips when John’s hips finally press against Sherlock’s behind, up to the hilt. 

John takes a deep breath and pecks the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, attempting to still himself inside him, “Alright?” He asks, voice wavering.

Sherlock manages to take his eyes away from where they’re joined, and look at the man above him, “Yes, more than.” He replies with a small smile. He reaches for John’s hand and entwines their fingers, “Is...is this what it felt like for you?” he sighs, as though he’s asking _'how did you cope?'_

“Is this what it felt like for _you_?” John counters with a laugh, or at least he tries to, he’s too far gone now, and his lungs are burning just from breathing. “Ready?”

Sherlock nods and buries his head into the crook of John’s neck at the first stirrings within him. 

It may be slow at first, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock clinging onto John for dear life, panting and whimpering against his skin at the lazy push and pull of the cock inside him. He can taste salt, feel heat and sweat under his fingertips, smell the tang of testosterone and sweat and that wicked sound of skin on skin that cause his toes to curl, “Oh John...”

John hisses right into Sherlock’s ear at that baritone, the low rumblings of a jaguar, “I know...I know...” he sighs, kissing down Sherlock’s neck and paying particular attention to that little freckle...

“Faster...”

John’s hips almost involuntarily reply, still being as gentle as possible (he may not as observant as Sherlock, but he has heard him wince a couple of times) but increasing the speed a little. He’s rewarded with Sherlock turning his head (despite the slight twang of his neck muscles in protest) and kissing him, tongue instantly reaching his and caressing. 

Then his body jolts, gasping with an _“Ah!”_ of surprise, eyes made almost entirely of a great pool of pupil and John continues to thrust in that exact way over, and over, and over, stroking Sherlock’s prostate. 

John’s pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead when he feels the first quiver. His lips linger on the skin, but hips maintaining momentum when he feels it again. Sherlock’s thighs.

“Already?” He gasps, looking at the man beneath him, whose eyes are screwed shut, and jaw tense in holding off. 

Sherlock manages a nod, a hand now gripping John’s nape. He grunts lowly, baring his clenched teeth.

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand, “Alright...it’s alright.” To be fair, his rhythm’s going a little off, and he’s starting to feel the distinct heat blooming in his groin. “I’m close to. Come on, come for me.”

“Uhhh....”

“Come on sweetheart, let go.” A kiss to the temple, “Let go.”

Sherlock eyes thrust open; _‘terracotta tiles/olive trees/tartan blanket/it’s not a vision/JohnJohnJohn-’_

“Ohhhh John, i’m com- John!” 

And come he does. John feels the wetness against his belly, feels it slide down skin as he erratically reaches for the end, hips snapping and his thighs aching with exertion.

“Come on, come inside me.” Sherlock sighs below him after catching his breath. He grabs his hips and places his feet on Johns arse for leverage, “Come on John.”

“Fuck Sherlock...” He sighs, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his hips still, unloading himself into Sherlock. “Oh fuck...!”

A hand reaches for the base of his cock, milking for every drop he has. “Uhhh yes John, just like that...”

Moments later, John reopens his eyes and barely has time to catch a breath before there’s a knock at the door. 

“Cooie! Are you boys alright?” Mrs Hudson asks, opening the door (because she’s not your housekeeper, but she just walks right into your flat without permission anyway) “I heard a bit of a commotion so I thought I’d come and check-”

“Vatican cameos!” Sherlock declares and John flings himself onto the body underneath him, both of them grunting in protest but hoping Mrs Hudson won’t notice their compromising position from the narrow slit in the door. 

“Oh, are you boys in the bedroom? Should have known!” She declares, with a giggle before placing what sounds like a bag of shopping on the kitchen table. 

John turns to look at Sherlock, “Is she _really_ just casually putting milk in the fridge, when she knows we are in here...” He whispers, gesturing to the pair of them, “Like _this_?”

Sherlock clears his throat, “Bananas actually...and yes, it seems she is-”

“-oh God this is horrific, I’m not leaving the flat for at least two wee-”

“-should never put bananas in the fridge, they emit ethane and spoil other food-” He pauses at the bizarre look on John’s face, “What?” 

John chuckles breathlessly, snuggling against Sherlock even though he’s rather too hot for it. 

Mrs Hudson soon leaves with a “Night Boys! Do try and keep the noise down will you?” shutting the door behind her and leaving a distinct smell of a freshly baked – cake in the kitchen. 

There are about 4 seconds of silence before the pair of them fall into giggles, their bodies jittering against the sheet with the force of it. 

“C’mere.” John smiles, kissing Sherlock tenderly, “Didn’t hurt you did I?” 

“Not too much.” (Which sounds like ‘not too _mach_ ’, because Sherlock is so incredibly posh) He replies, holding John to him when he begins to fidget, “Don’t you dare go for that bloody cake John Watson.”

“Oh wha-”

“Besides,” Sherlock interrupts with such a suggestive tone that John is quite happy to shut his gob, “I think you’ve rather had enough to eat already don’t you?” 

John stares at Sherlock’s face, eyebrow raised in puzzlement, “Did you just make a sexual innuendo?”

“Hmm, think I did yes.”

John feels hands squeeze his hips, “...That was pretty good for a first try.”

With a deep growl from his chest and lips pressed against John’s ear he purrs with an underlying meaning – “Oh yes, I’d like to think so.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking prompts people! You can either do it on Tumblr, inbox me on ff.net or send an email to katielizabeth92@hotmail.co.uk - be anon if you like!
> 
> For Benedict Cuminmapants : [TUMBLR](http://nom-omnis-moriar.tumblr.com/)


End file.
